


The Prodigals Return Affair

by Cynara



Series: An Affair to Remember [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Fifteen Years Later Affair, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynara/pseuds/Cynara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When spies return, they must set up house keeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prodigals Return Affair

"Live with me." Napoleon looked at Illya, searching for some reaction to the request. Plea. Napoleon knew he wasn't at his best after this latest affair. Debriefing, paperwork, and the rest was all more trying than saving the world. The waiting to know Illya was successful.

Illya stepped past Napoleon, pausing while his partner dropped in beside him. "Why would I?"

It wasn't no. They had left the security lacuna, and were back on stage. "We work well together. I want it back. Sir Raleigh has tapped me for Section One. Number One." He willed Illya to read what he couldn't say, not here, not where the walls had ears.

Illya stopped, turned and glared incandescently. "You fall on your feet."

Napoleon felt relief, while he leaned into the play. "Aunt Amy left me her penthouse."

It was gauche, calculatingly so, and that made it both worse and necessary. There had been no display when Illya had left. He'd in fact vanished with only a resignation letter marking the event. Mr. Waverly had turned Illya's departure into an opportunity, making sleepers out of both of them. The play's final act had to be perfect.

"I could recommend a decorator." Illya strode off.

Napoleon hurried after him, halting the fall of his hands onto Illya's arms. The flare of humor in Illya's eyes was for his only. "I've missed you." And that stopped the Russian. The bare truth, said for everyone. "Please."

"People will talk." Illya made a horrified expression. "The press."

Napoleon hadn't thought about that. Illya wasn't the obscure young man anymore, but a designer of some notoriety. "Better to live with me than be caught making rendezvous." The paparazzi would have a handle, and they'd find it. "You will come back to U.N.C.L.E.?"

"You'd dun me."

"You've missed it."

"Shot at, branding irons, cattle prods..."

"Whips and chains." Napoleon smirked at the frosty eyes that earned.

"Yes."

"Yes you'll live with me?"

"Yes, I'll come back to U.N.C.L.E."

"Illya, look. I'll be here all the time, with a security detail to Staten Island. I don't want to be in the same city and never see you." They'd never planned for this, never scripted their return. Never tempted fate to take yet more from them. At least as agents, it was that you couldn't know if you'd be alive tomorrow that made the future a mythical realm.

"I said I'd be here."

Napoleon had run out of words. They'd waited too long. That punch had been the closest intimacy they'd shared since....

Illya kissed him on both cheeks. "You're buying dinner."

Napoleon roused himself and followed.

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After a long and expensive dinner, Illya followed Napoleon off the elevator and into Aunt Amy's penthouse. Several fine antiques were no longer in their places, though it'd been ages since he'd been here. Nothing so gauche as differences of paint marred the walls, but they were much emptier. It was hard to believe she was gone.

It didn't change the fact the penthouse would never do for the eventual Number 1, Section 1 of the U.N.C.L.E. New York office. The building wasn't nearly tall enough, and with its view of Central Park a sniper had a clear shot from anywhere on an immense pie wedge. Napoleon couldn't be blind to this.

"You'd light up."

Napoleon looked at him. "You're here."

He didn't deny he'd been smoking. Not during the mission; an agent could ignore all sorts of unpleasantness, even nicotine-loss, while the adrenaline flowed. It was afterward they succumbed each to their own vices.

Napoleon broke their gaze and started the security sweep. He'd not cleared things out, just sent the willed items off to their recipients and made sure their departure wasn't glaring. He knew Illya had made the funeral, from a high-power lens half a mile away.

Illya took half of the task, sprinkling out decoy bon mots, still spinning their web of estrangement. Napoleon played his part well. Finally, they finished and stood before each other. Alone.

Napoleon drank Illya in, now they were free of nuclear devices to secure and prying eyes to deceive. "She died in that chair she'd always wanted to reupholster." He glanced to where it had stood.

Illya smiled. He'd hoped it had been sudden, that she'd been spared a lingering death. He crossed to the drinks cabinet, finding the decanter of port and plucking two glasses. He poured and handed one to Napoleon. "Aunt Amy." He sipped, watched Napoleon drink after a lift of his glass.

Napoleon sat his empty down, took Illya's and stepped close. So long. Too long. He'd forgotten how mission's end felt.

"You've camped in the guest room." Illya stepped away, slipped into the short hall.

Napoleon followed. His breath fled him as he saw Illya stripping, back towards the door, pale flesh revealed. He stepped in, pushed the door shut and locked it. Napoleon unknotted his tie and draped his suitcoat over the valet as he watched. His. Napoleon sat and untied his shoes, took them off and stood to remove his trousers.

Illya pressed into him and latched his mouth over Napoleon's. Napoleon returned the embrace, fueled the kiss, pants hanging forgotten in one hand. Illya pulled them from his grasp, tossed them. Napoleon tilted his head and clutched Illya's in both hands, devouring his mouth.

Illya attacked Napoleon's boxers, pushing the elastic down at back and pulling the waistband forward. The boxers fell between them. The kiss burned on. He rucked up his lover's shirttails, and his hands scrambled over his lover's still clothed back, against the holster's leather while their naked hips moved together.

Napoleon pushed them into bed, climbing in over Illya. Home. Their cocks slid together. He was home and he was never leaving again. Not leaving Illya, not splitting himself in two anymore.

Illya unbuckled Napoleon's holster, Napoleon set his Walther within reach. Leather thumped against wool rug, shirt and undershirt following. Illya rolled Napoleon under him, whuffed as he was pulled down. He arched and strained, flesh slapping.

Napoleon moaned, his hands firm, gripping Illya's ass. Illya pinned his shoulders, pushing away while grinding down.

Just them, no world, no innocents. Two, one. Everything disappeared into two blue eyes.

Illya fell forward, catching himself on his hands late. He breathed in by Napoleon's neck, the scent of sex between them. He wriggled slightly, fixing in his mind the location of his weapon before sliding into sleep.

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Napoleon tapped his hand against his pistol, then opened his eyes. No dream. He stroked the blond mop. He was confident this would work, though he wondered just how. That had always been his secret, knowing the goal and finding the path to it. He kissed Illya's forehead. It had taken him time to realize this was the only place he wanted to be. Walking from U.N.C.L.E had been easy; Illya wasn't there. Not running to Illya was the challenge, not that they really had stayed away, either from each other, or U.N.C.L.E. The pretense had claimed its price though, one whose coin was every night he'd slept alone. Every kiss not given. It was time to change games.

Illya kissed Napoleon quickly and slipped out of bed. Napoleon belatedly reacted to the loss of his bedmate, heaving himself upright. How had Illya passed so quickly from boneless to bounding? He felt every one of both of their years. The sound of the shower inspired him. He got up and went to Illya, not bothering with a robe.

Illya spun in the arms that reached around him, plundered Napoleon's mouth and directed him under the spray before ending the kiss. He scrubbed his lover, rubbing their legs together.

Napoleon tipped his head back and gathered a mouthful of water, swished it around, stepped off the drain and spit. Then his lips were back on Illya's.

They shuffled around the stall in their embrace, completing their ablutions without breaking the kiss. They washed each others backs, shampooed, lifted legs so the other could scrub. Illya shut off the tap and Napoleon led them out. The kiss ended so they could watch each other towel dry.

"You need a hair cut," Illya quipped.

Napoleon laughed and pulled Illya into him by his towel. Soon he was pushed out of the bathroom by his bossy blond. The edge of the mattress hit him behind the knee and he was down and covered. Illya distracted him through erotic siege and tickling. Napoleon found Illya's shoulders with his hands once his lover had him in his mouth.

Illya noted Napoleon's fingers trace up his neck, maintaining his focus on Napoleon's cock. He brought up his own hand to cover Napoleon's as it cupped his cheek. He purred as Napoleon's other hand traced lightly behind his ear and up and down his nape. Fingertip kisses.

Napoleon switched hands, rubbing his thumb over Illya's stretched lips, while his other hand crept further into Illya's hair. He held on as best as he could, wanting to last as long as Illya wished. They'd not always had this, and they'd been separated for too many miles and years. His control snapped, dammed orgasm rushing out.

Muzzy, he caught Illya and savored his mouth. He moved his weight over his partner and worked him with his right hand, while their tongues dueled. Illya's completion didn't end the kissing, just removed a distraction. They drifted off together.

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Napoleon locked the door, then dropped the key into the hand of the smartly coveralled man. Illya had already left, taking their suitcases and the boxes they'd decided not to entrust to the carters. Through a series of convoluted transactions, the apartment had been sold to several younger members of his family. He'd be able to buy Illya coffee in Milan.

He'd always cherished his, and then their, visits to Aunt Amy. He'd wanted to hold onto those memories. Make new ones. He'd known the security profile was all wrong. It had been a fantasy making this their home. Even spies could have dreams. They needed them the most. He walked away.

He got into the back of the taxi that pulled up, recognizing the Section 3 driver Ali. Sir Raleigh was juggling North America operations and the opening of a new Pacific Headquarters. The one thing Mr. Waverly hadn't calculated in his plans was his own death.

Sepheran's nuclear ambition had run into various delays, threatening Mr. Waverly's plan. Sir Raleigh had stepped in, but he could delay opening the Pacific Headquarters only so long. The affair finally started right before the buzzer. So much that he and Illya had sacrificed was ransomed by foiling Sepheran's plans.

Not everything. They'd never get those years back, when they pretended they were in the cold. He smiled. The odds had been against them even having years, back when they'd been agents. He ignored what could have gone wrong this time. Spies learned from the mistakes they survived, and walked away from the failures that might have been. He was going to live with Illya.

He'd have to keep them out of the tabloids. There was a way to manage it, likely through the publishers. If there was no market, the photographers would seek other pastures.

First he had to catch up with becoming Number One, Section One, North America. He'd done his homework, while he founded and seemingly foundered a successful computer company. Current affairs, history, world literature and arts. Other things could only be learned hands on. He wouldn't disappoint Mr. Waverly.  
__________________________________________________________________

Several weeks later

 

"Illya." He'd kept his eyes closed on the ride over, only because he knew how the security detail would react to him being blindfolded. They hadn't generally disclosed that the proprietor of House of Vanya was the once Number 2, Section 2 Mr. Kuryakin. If anything, Illya had been busier than he. That was the difference between their businesses; Napoleon had sold his computer company to its senior staff after revealing the firm was still capitalized. His partner was House of Vanya in very real ways.

"Open them." Illya dropped a key into Napoleon's hand.

Napoleon looked at the key, at the door, and then down the hall at two more doors.

"Services. Go ahead."

Napoleon looked at his partner, then unlocked the door and opened it. He stepped inside. There was no furniture, just a few crates and boxes. He noticed the 'kitchen' was bare to the subfloor, capped pipes jutting up. He walked towards the wall, pulling aside the window treatment. "Illya?" He recognized the latest 'armored glass'; it could take a .50 caliber round, was visually obscurant outside in, and reduced UV rays. He looked out, sliding in front of the window. He turned to Illya once he realized their exclusive location.

Illya smiled, sphinxlike.

Napoleon clapped him on the shoulders and pulled Illya into a hug. His fingers dug into the blond hair and he leaned into a soft kiss. With difficulty he stood away. The security detail would become suspicious, should they both come down with kiss swelled lips. "When you say da...."

"You will learn to delegate. I won't live here by myself."

Napoleon nodded, aware both that Illya understood there would be times he wouldn't be able to step away and that he'd follow through should Napoleon tie himself to the wheel contrary to circumstance. He liked there being an immovable object to his irresistible force.

Illya smiled one of his rationed lip quirks, then walked further into the apartment. Napoleon followed. Illya reached past the doorway and flipped a switch. "Our room." He repeated the action across the hall. "'My' room."

Napoleon tilted his head and rubbed his nose. He wasn't going to say anything. It was a rather transparent dodge, but it wasn't like they'd be hosting parties at home. He did lean in, noticing the sturdy shelves, and the mounting for a fold down bed. He expected it'd look Vernesque when completed.

"The kitchen needs to be decided before entertaining your thoughts."

Napoleon smiled, noticing Illya didn't dismiss those thoughts. "Decided?"

"Yours is the expertise when it comes to cooking." He looked at Napoleon. "Though I have measured the distance between the floor and the shelves for the plates and glasses." He turned back to the empty space. "If I can give them instructions tomorrow, we move in before the end of the month."

Illya did always know how to provide motivation. Before he could ask, he saw Illya had a clipboard loaded with graph paper. "No glasses?"

Illya pulled out a small case, opened the end and slid out a pair of frameless glasses, putting them on quickly. He held the mechanical pencil ready.

How long had the black frames been gone? Napoleon focused on the task of laying out the kitchen, grabbing Illya to fine tune the design for their choreography, miming various tasks. He gave corrections on where the ovens should stand, and specified the clearances for the island. No sense to invite slapstick. "So, is the kitchen going to be the only place I get any input?" Napoleon swallowed at the promising smile Illya gave him as sole answer, double entendre unspoken. "And remember a tile floor is hard on both cooks and china."

"You head down. I'll close up here."

"Illya."

"I'll get a cab."

They both knew it was a lie, and knew the other knew it as such. Napoleon accepted Illya's choice. U.N.C.L.E. was already swaddling him in batting, and soon Illya would gain keepers as well. It went with them living together. He'd have to pick those agents carefully. "I'm not going to be able to hold the secret of your identity much longer. Finish any security shakedowns within 72 hours." He opened the door, their door, and stepped out. He pressed the button for the elevator and stepped in.

They'd not discussed Illya's new position. It went without saying he'd be the eyes in the back of Napoleon's head. He'd have the head of R&D report to Illya. Out of date as Illya protested he was, he'd still speak the right language. Not that he believed Illya wasn't up on science and technology, but it was true enough the razor's edge could only be ridden full-time.

The car pulled up at the door just as he stepped out. Illya had already timed the elevator and called his detail. He was looking forward to moving-in day.

 

A New Beginning


End file.
